


Philza's Mathematical Outlook

by redcursive



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcursive/pseuds/redcursive
Summary: Philza's never been one for words and feelings, not when numbers will do. Here's how he processes his broken family, once equation at a time.
Relationships: Sleepy Bois Inc - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 74





	Philza's Mathematical Outlook

Life is so much better when you can quantify it in groups of numbers. August is the eighth month, I am 73 percent sure that Dream’s prison is for me, one fourth of my family is dead.

Tommy and I are a reciprocal function. The closer we get, the more apart we grow, diverging at the center towards positive and negative infinity. He loved me, and I him, when I secluded myself in my own hardcore world. I don’t know if my son loves me anymore. It is so difficult to tell, sometimes, whether Dream stole away Tommy’s ability to love.

Tommy believes that the discs are the cause of everyone’s suffering, and that by retrieving him he can alleviate all the wrongs in the world. He is bull-headed and blind. He runs himself into the ground trying to get back those discs, uncaring of who or what he has to destroy, and when it all comes to a screeching halt at the vertex of his parabola, he takes a look around at the destruction he has wrought and cannot fathom that it is his own fault.

From a logical standpoint, I should intervene. I should secret my children away, far from harm, and heal them as best I can. It is too late for that, though. I have walked into the lion’s jaws just in time to watch my son devoured by his own madness, afflicted to the point that he’d rather throw himself upon my sword.  
It is in the very air of this world. Whatever Dream’s done, whatever madness he’s injected into the heart of this world, I can feel it. It seeps into my skin as I sleep. I cannot leave, nor do I want to.

Take the derivative, the rate of change of my fleeting mind, compare it to that of my children. Is my derivative a smaller number, or did I merely start with a smaller constant? As constants are stripped away in the process of derivation, the pretty sheen has been stripped away from all of our ugly true selves. Even if I knew how to integrate, it would never be the same. I cannot put them back together, cannot put myself back together.

As much as I want to raze it all to the ground, I allow my children to do it instead. Let them all think that I am the one in control. I have never been in control. I sit at my table, do my math, draw my pretty graphs, and contemplate what it would mean were I to break every bone in Dream’s body for what he’s done to me and mine. I will allow Dream to bring me low, humiliate me and hurt my children, so that when I crush him, he will forever be haunted by the shadow of his magnificent defeat. He will learn suffering, and I shall be his teacher. 

Isn’t that algebra, after all? What you do to one side of an equation, you must do to the other, and Dream’s got a lot of karma hanging over his head.


End file.
